


Things Better Left Untouched.

by RalekNoor



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 04:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6838843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RalekNoor/pseuds/RalekNoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been a trying few months for James Gordon after taking up the mantle of the Batman. His best friend - only friend, perhaps (and what a life that was) - is dead, and he joins the Justice League in full. They know his secret, they know what he has done, but they begrudgingly accept him. Because for all of his faults, and all of his personal sins, he is an invaluable resource. But he doesn't think so. Wonder Woman has always been the one to separate the mask from the man, more so in Gordon's case. He is old, and lonely, but she sees a man, not a monster, and for all of that, he couldn't be more thankful. </p>
<p>One night, they find themselves alone, and he finds himself wishing for her touch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Better Left Untouched.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on discountdetective @ tumblr, my roleplaying blog for my personal AU (alternate universe) where James Gordon takes up the mantle of the Batman upon the request of a dying Bruce Wayne. Sex scenes ahoy.

“Wonder Woman.”

His own voice is disgusting to hear. At this point, the revelation of Bruce Wayne’s death and Jim Gordon’s takeover of the cowl had long since passed into the horizon, the doubt and surprise trickling away until nothing was left. Now, he has become a mainstay in the League, a crude but effective reminder of what once was. He can’t say he truly blamed any of the members for having doubts about him, or even considering him inferior to his predecessor, but he’d be lying to himself if hearing that from people he _might have_  respected at one point didn’t hurt like hell. Wonder Woman, now, she was different. She treated him as equally as she treated Bruce Wayne, and maybe not with the same personal respect (so says his crippling self-doubt), but definitely as a professional. He couldn’t help but admire her for that, for her unwavering sense of justice and the relentless pursuit of truth. She reminds him of himself, and it’s probably why he finds himself at her feet, cowl and cape and all that comes with it. 

         “I don’t know if I can handle this.” he gestures vaguely to the uniform, a symbol of hope for the people of Gotham City, now, it was a symbol of how things were. “I don’t know how _he_  handled it.” 

When she places a hand on his shoulder, out of habit he shrugs it off and, though her gaze falls as a result, she doesn’t hold it against him. Their dynamic has always been one of tentative touches and speeches, this was no different. Jim Gordon is a tough man, even tougher underneath the protection of the suit, but he was still human. He had earned her respect even before he took up the mantle, perhaps the last vestige of truth and integrity for Gotham City, apart from Batman himself. He has endured more than most of the League, and with no powers to aid him in doing so. In the aspect, he was more like Bruce than he realized. 

         “Take off the mask. You’re safe here, Gordon, we _trust_  you.” she offers, but she doesn’t know if it’ll get through to him, if it’ll make a difference. 

         “This place is too reflective for its own good. I don’t want to see my face – barely wanted to see it before this.” 

         “ _I_  want to see it. You wouldn’t have come here to me if you didn’t feel like I could offer some you some resolve. I can hardly do that if you’re hiding away, now can I?” 

         “Mm.” he grunts, and his fingers work to undo the mask. It comes easily to him, she realizes, and she knows, now, how damning that mask is for him. 

 “There. That’s better.” she sighs, moving her hand from his shoulder to the creases on his face, formed by decades of worrying. “You’re strong, James. Stronger than you know, and you coming here is proof of that.”

           “How so?” 

           “For starters, you’ve worked past the sense of pride that most men have when it comes to showing weakness.”

            “Pride’s a useless thing.” 

            “Mm. Not always.” 

James Gordon is a tall man, and his body is in peak physical condition for a man in his mid 40′s. His eyes are sunken in, and they dart to and fro as if expecting trouble to leap out at him at any moment. He maintains eye contact, but even then, he seems to look _beyond_  her, into some unknown reality perhaps only he can see. The reality of distrust, a world where no man should ever belong. But like Bruce before him, Gordon lived in that reality, constantly, and lived his daily life by its rules. 

             “You remind me of my wife.” 

              “How’s that?”

              “Strong, determined. Always knows the right things to say.” As an after thought, his gaze is cast to the side, a rarity for him, and he clears his throat. “Beautiful.” 

                She smiles. The compliment is accepted, but she doesn’t make any note of it. He’s embarrassed about it enough as it is. “Your wife sounds rather lovely.” 

                 “She was. Kept my ass grounded when I would lose it.”

                 “Like now?”

                 He nods. “Like now.”

She hums out, his skin feeling warm to the touch. The worry-lines, she doesn’t mind so much, though, she worries herself about his mental health. Perhaps more so for the League than for personal reasons, but the worry is still there. Waiting beneath the surface as a shark waits for the spilling of blood. He looks back at her, and his gaze softens, his eyes settling into one spot, something she finds she’s thankful for. 

                 “In time, you will find it’s easier. The responsibility. He did.” 

                 “He was a better man than I.”

                 She shakes her head, but doesn’t make any further effort to dispute it. She lets her hands fall back to his shoulders, only this time he doesn’t shrug them away. She’s thankful for that, too. “You should take the suit off. Give your body time to relax, adjust itself.” 

                  “That’s – gonna be a problem.” 

                  She tilts her head, eyebrow arched. “Oh?”

                  “I don’t know how often he did it, or if ever, but I ain’t got anything on under here. Not exactly sure the League will appreciate nudity of the old man variety.” 

                  “Ah. I see.” she pauses, and she finds a grin rising on her face. He’s bashful enough, and it’s sort of endearing. “Turn around. I’ll help you.”

                  His face twists as if to object to this, but there’s a moment where a realization sort of dawns in his eyes, knowing better than to object to her. “Fine.” he offers, though it sounds more gruff than usual.

The suit comes off easily enough, and he’s left with his bare skin against the stale air, about the only thing he’s wearing is a pair of underwear he’d recently bought. Facing away from her, he isn’t sure of the expression on her face, but he can tell by the tracing of her fingers along his back she’s curious – probably as to how his body is in such remarkable shape in spite of the stress and tear placed on it. When she speaks, that voice that is ever soft and lilting, his hypothesis is confirmed. 

                  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re one of us.” a pause. “Something more than normal.” 

                   He turns, and his gaze is even softer, now, if that were possible. “What’s wrong with normal?” 

                    “Nothing. Nothing at all.” another pause. “Sometimes it’s good, normal. A welcome change from people who can harden their skin or shoot lasers out of their eyes.” 

                     He laughs. “Sure, I can understand that.” 

She places a hand over his heart, feeling the steady rhythm increase at a near-record pace. Like everything else between them, it’s tentative, filled more with genuine concern than any sort of attraction. But he places his hand over hers, taking it away from his chest, and she finds that she’s not alright with that. His skin, his breathing, his pulse – all normal, like she said, a welcome change of pace. She enjoyed it.

                     “Is there something I can call you besides your moniker?”

                     She hesitates, then nods slightly. “Diana.” She never kept her identity a secret, at least, not to the point of Batman or even Superman, but with Gordon it was different. He was a civilian, but even in spite of that, he was someone she found she does not fully trust – no manner of personal respect could change that. 

                     He smiles. “Diana. Pretty name.”

                     Unlike before, she decides to vocally accept this compliment. “Thank you.”

                      “My pleasure.” 

The silence that falls between them last for longer than either of them cared for. His gaze, softened now, didn’t seem to be looking _beyond_  her, rather, **at**  her, at the lines on her face, her eyes, everything about her. And her gaze turned from one of worry and concern to one of soft admiration, the kind that’s talked about by poets, Yeats, Whitman and the like. He takes note of this, perhaps too visibly, as he finds himself smiling like some nervous teenager. 

                      “Diana?”

                      “Yes, James?”

                      “It wouldn’t be too forward of me to kiss you, would it?” 

And the question hangs in the air, a gentle reminder of all that is good in the world, a soft breeze on a summer day, the feeling of a heat against your skin during winter, the way water coats your mouth after being denied it so long. She’s a little bit awestruck at it, at the bravery posed by one James Gordon, but she finds that she isn’t entirely opposed to the idea, to the question, but most of all, to the _man_. She allows herself to smile, a different kind of smile, were she like him, she’d probably compare it to a nervous teenager as well. But to her, it’s simply _there_ , a comfortable smile. 

                      “I don’t think it would be at all.”

So he does. The absence of a beard has grown rise to the lightest of stubble, and when it presses against Diana’s skin, she finds herself comforted. Even more so when she reciprocates the kiss, a slow, hesitant reciprocation. His bare skin against hers, even through the armor and suit _she_ wears, felt foreign to the touch, but the comfort remains. Her arms wrap around his neck, fingers trailing along the back of it. He reacts to her touch in the way she’d expect, a light exhale of breath, and she finds herself only embroiled deeper into the kiss. 

This was not the day she was expecting. Moreover, when he asked to kiss her, she wasn’t expecting them to find their way on the floor, his hands roaming through her hair as if he was trying to find something. Himself, perhaps, and her hands did the same – only, here, she was trying to help him find himself. His lips eventually settle at the crook of her neck, and her eyes close in response, and she offers a light gasp – audible enough for Gordon to hear. 

                      “Oh – Diana,” he whispers through kisses and suckling of her skin. 

She doesn’t respond, only cranes her neck to allow him more exposure to her skin, and she finds herself curious as to how this happened. How she ended up in the embrace of James Gordon, of all people, not that he was – particularly unattractive or undesirable. Curious as to how she isn’t objecting to it, to this situation as a whole, and curious as to why she works her costume off underneath his weight. 

Now, here, her bare skin against his own, the comfort is only multiplied. His touch is gentle, caring, far more than she would’ve expected from someone with as notorious a reputation as he. She can feel the shakes in his hands, his pulse quickening, and she takes his face in her hands and places a deep kiss on his lips – in hopes it would calm him, show him that this situation was not unwarranted on her end. 

It does help. His hands steady, and his pace slow out, and now, if it were possible, his touch is even more gentle. It’s when he ends up sliding his underwear off that the shakiness and the quickening pace returns, and she cannot do anything to help him here – the movements are lost on her, she finds warmth crawling from the back of her neck to her cheeks. 

But he doesn’t enter right away, no – his mouth hovers over her breasts, a silent request for permission, and she runs her hands through his hair as a go-ahead. And so he does, and his lips, his _teeth_ , graze over her nipples with the same gentleness as his touch. She moans, now, welcoming his presence in full. This was not the day she was expecting, but it was not unwelcome. She grabs hold of more of his hair as he begins to suck on her nipples, a thoroughly childish gesture, but one she does not deter. 

When he’s had his fill, his hands move down to her inner thighs, tracing along her skin, until they find their way at her vagina, slick with arousal, silent aching and permission for him. Again, before he ever, _truly_ , enters, his index and middle slip inside, and he welcomes her warmth on his skin, and she does as well. Her breath hitches, back arching up in response to his touch, and a grin rises on his skin. Better to make her feel good than pain, he thinks, and he places a series of kisses down her chest and stomach. He picks up the pace, fingers thrusting in and out of her, and each time, her moans grow louder and filled with more pleasure than before. Briefly he thinks, thank God he closed the door behind him. 

It’s only when his pace slows, and his lips hover over her clit, sucking on it ever so softly, that she grips his shoulders tight. He looks up at her, brow arched, and when she steels herself enough to respond, she nods; she wants to say, _go ahead_ , but she just doesn’t have the patience for it. And so he does. He takes his fingers out of her, slowly, and moves up so his face his parallel with her own – and here, _finally_ , he truly enters her. 

The sensation for him is beyond belief, not only the warmth, but the sheer _power_  behind her presence around his cock, erect as it is. He’d never felt as doubtful about his own presence as he did now, a man next to a goddess, but when she flutters her eyes open to look at him, all of that doubt is erased quickly. And in doing so, he feels _confident_ , enough so that he takes the pace at which he thrusts rather slowly, more comparable to making love than sheer sex. And perhaps that’s what he’s doing, now, making love to Diana, in his own sort of way, finding himself _in her_. 

She’s no longer curious about the things she was before, these were answered in his touch, in the penetration of her by Jim Gordon – now, she’s only curious as to how he feels, and if it was at the same level of pleasure she felt herself. She wraps her legs around his torso, allowing him a better angle to thrust, and her fingernails dig into her back – willing herself to restrain the power within her own grip. And it works, _Goddess_  does it work, her eyes close and she throws her head back and her back _arches_  again; the pace at which he is thrusting is far more pleasurable than she could ever think. 

As the world turns outside, as the night gives way to morning, and the animals of the world go about their own cycle, Jim Gordon and Diana Prince hold themselves in an ever deepening embrace. The comfort in which they both feel around each other is only strengthened by this act, this act of _making love but not_ , and she finds herself curious as to how this is going to evolve. **If**  it will evolve. And he wonders the same, even as they cum in near-unison, he wonders if their dynamic will remain the same. Perhaps they are both on the same wavelength, as though they’ve both reached their climax, and Gordon slides out of her, they do not hurry to dress themselves and show their presence to the rest of the League. They lay on the floor, surrounded by their clothes, and the Batsuit lays on the floor, as if a symbol – Gordon shedding the guilt, the remorse, the self-doubt that came with inheriting the cowl. Diana rests her head on his chest, and their hands are held together, tightened, a bond now formed between them this day. There is silence for hours as they drift into a short slumber, and as they awake, Gordon finds himself smiling, finds that he feels _at peace_  for the first time in years. And Diana kisses at the bridge of his nose, and his forehead, hoping that this small action will show him that she feels the same. And so she does. 


End file.
